A Conflicted Peace
by Desert Bloom
Summary: It has been a year since Endless Waltz, and of course, there's another organization upsetting peace. The real question is: Can a generation of warriors set aside their weapons and learn to live life? And who do they want by their side as they do so?
1. Bittersweet SentimentsCold Christmas

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* * *

Authoress' Note: Well, this is my first fanfiction in a while. Readers of my other pieces don't have to worry – finally, I will very soon be continuing The Woman' Piano as well as Forbidden. Unfortunately, I am not sure of all of the couples I will be using here, other than definitely: RPxHY, ZMxNoin (I actually forgot her last name...), DMxHS, and WCxSally (I forgot her last name too...argh.) There's a lot of loose strands, but don't worry, I will be weaving the plot together._

* * *

Chapter One of A Conflicted Peace: Bittersweet Sentiments and The Cold Christmas

* * *

Milliardo Peacecraft had, in his childhood, seen a number of royal gardens. Besides the art of battle and all philosophy acquainted with such, he was perhaps one of the better experts concerning the front yards of castle royalty – and this, this was easily the best royal garden he had ever stepped foot in. This is because it seemed to have abandoned the humans that had designed it, or, perhaps more likely, the person who had designed it was extremely mindful of artificial abandonment. It seemed so real and natural that you almost forgot that past this castle, you met poverty swathed in squalor, and outside this colony, there was the darkness of space. Here, it was the epitome of serenity. Trees and roses curled over the pavement, hummingbirds buzzed happily around, doves perched lazily on branches that reached toward the perfectly blue sky with a light brushing of white cloud.  
  
Milliardo Peacecraft had, perhaps also in his childhood, decided he would never be fit for heaven. He had experienced too many things that would give ordinary men nightmares for the rest of their adult lives, and even worse, he did not have nightmares so far into his adult life. He exuded a sort of indifference towards the atrocities he had suffered and committed. No guilt dared trespass within this man's cold, cold heart, and so, with a sort of poetic whimsy, he told himself that heaven was out of reach. He was not alone in that presumption, as it is a decision that thousands make every day, and the man who owned this garden also thought similarly.  
  
It seemed a faint attempt to take in life what the owner believed he could never have in the afterlife (this sort of whimsy depends entirely, of course, on whether or not you believe in any afterlife).  
  
That time of year, reading minds was quite fashionable. "Heavenly, isn't it? Alas, I find myself unfortunately grounded otherwise..."  
  
Wheels rotated and moved forward across grass and cobblestone. Milliardo looked into the eyes of a fiercely charismatic and somehow kindly appearing young man, only his own age, undoubtedly handsome, especially in earlier days. Long black hair framed wildly intelligent green eyes, vaguely reminiscent of the cleverest of cats.  
  
The man, was, unfortunately grounded however, and had two ruined stumps of legs pinned to his wheelchair. His attitude and personality, however, did not translate into a depressed demeanor. If Milliardo were like Duo Maxwell or Quatre Winner, two individuals predisposed to social interests, he probably would have liked the man's manner immensely.  
  
There were two factors here, however, that disagreed with Milliardo liking him: 1) He was about as alike to Maxwell and Winner as apples are to oranges, and 2): "We fought together in the war, Cyrus. I don't usually fraternize with old war comrades. Why did you trick me into coming here?"  
  
Cyrus was in the process of lighting a cigarette. The end of the match flared and the smoke seemed somehow unnatural, curving around the leaves on branches above them. "I can see you have an itchy trigger finger. Your hand is already sneaking around to your gun. Calm down, Zechs. You haven't changed at all, have you? I have a proposition for you, that is all, not a demand..."  
  
Then, Milliardo interrupted with the fateful words: "The war is over."  
  
By the simple power of Milliardo's voice, an inexplicable tension descended; the doves scattered, as if driven away by some unpleasant wind, and the silence was uncharacteristic. Where was the bird's singing, the cricket's humming, the toad's chirruping?  
  
"Perhaps..." murmured Cyrius through his cigarette, his tone inaudible. "...You have changed, more than anyone can tell."

* * *

The colony weather machines could never truly substitute for real nature, even when their timing was cunning. After all, what could be more enchanting than a white Christmas? They'd painted the city white with snow, a full few feet of it, and for all their trouble, had only managed to accumulate a large bill of complaints. It was messy, it got in the way, you had to shovel it, it melted and then you slipped on it – or even worse, it froze and then you slipped on it – and there was no doubt in anyone's mind that next year, a light frost would be quite enough festivity for everyone involved.  
  
Relena breathed fog against the Winner Corporation windows, and decided on another fault: it didn't hold a candle to real snow. It looked like white ash. And ash was already in abundance, mixed in with the snow, because the freezing homeless had to set up small fires to survive. It turned out that cold was fairly easy to imitate, and they had done it with artistic, unfortunate precision.  
  
"You remind me so much...of him." spoke up a quiet, kindly voice behind her.  
  
She turned to see a smiling Quatre holding out a steaming mug. "Who do I remind you of?" She inquired, taking it from him gladly. That familiar hot cocoa scent wafted up to her, reminding her of long ago Christmas' with Darlian. The man would always be her true father, despite her actual Peacecraft heritage.  
  
Quatre was talking about a similar subject. "Beg your pardon, Relena, but my father. Whenever he felt meditative, he would look out that window. And you both have the same perceptions about peace. Of course, I have a great deal more respect for your opinions now than I did for his then." He paused, a little sheepish, and then raised his own mug to his lips, not sipping, and continued, "Do you think the negotiations will be difficult?"  
  
She frowned, but it was a strange paradox, for it was a smiling frown. "I'm sure it will be...challenging, at points. But I don't believe it to be insurmountable, or at least, not with the financial backing from a neutral source."  
  
"I was glad to step in and intervene. The situation was getting out of control. But I can't say I'm neutral, it's more like I'm taking your side – and you're neutral." He coughed, and Relena thought that the cold temperatures also had flu-like side effects. Yes, next year, the snow would definitely have to go.  
  
"Look, it's Christmas." interrupted Relena, seating herself on a couch. "Or, it will be soon. I want to hear news about how everyone's been doing. You keep in better contact with them than I do, I believe. How are they?"  
  
"They? I'm assuming you mean the other pilots. It has been a year, hasn't it? Well, who do you want to hear about first?"  
  
Relena pushed the thought of a particular monotone pilot out of her head, and decided to go for the extreme opposite. It was probably a ploy that Quatre saw easily through, but it would be difficult to beat the tactician anyway. "How's Hilde doing? And her crazy room mate?"  
  
Quatre chuckled quietly to himself, blue eyes laughing with their hard- earned warmth. "I'd say they're a little more than that, Relena. Oh, Duo is Duo..."

* * *

There are places like the Winner Corporation, where money, fame and power (even innocently conceived and deserved) glows from every skyscraper, and every deskman and high-paid business manager has the same tropical potted plant gleaming in the same right hand corner of the all similarly square and white plastered offices.  
  
Then there are seedy downtown areas in colonies that are not quite as fortunate in the money department (listen, they don't even have a money department) and these are the places where neon lights and police sirens are the sights and sounds, but the smell is always Ma's home cooking, usually emanating from a neon sign place where you can buy all the home cooked pasta and soup you want. The scenery seems painted with different hues of black, as everything is gray and then progressively dark, and there is never any white. Soot and strange, dilapidated machinery is more common than houses and warm homes; this area does not even have the money to pay for cold temperatures to freeze their poor.  
  
A brown-braided, grinning face emerged from the back of some dilapidated machinery, angling a wrench over their shoulder. A frowning, large woman put on her spectacles and peered at the mechanic's quick work.  
  
"I'm no expert," she said, "But this thing will run, right?"  
  
"If it doesn't Marla, I'll dress up in a chicken suit and say I'm a Gundam pilot." replied Duo cheerfully. He laughed. "I'd like to see a Gundam pilot do as good a job as that, though!"  
  
Just then, a cardboard box was overturned from a nearby wire fence, a cat meowed loudly, and there was the rustle of several sniper guns arranging themselves. Duo quickly pushed the elderly lady behind him, but it was to no avail, because it seemed their enemies were in a tight circle around them.  
  
"Be careful what you wish for, you might just get it," sneered the jeering face of a local ruffian. He had a nose that Duo thought resembled something like a weasel's snout, a particularly ugly weasel's snout. "Give us the car immediately, or we'll pump you full of lead!"  
  
"Oh, it's a car?" murmured Marla, glancing at it admiringly. It was more like a collection of junk and trash given the gift of movement by some benevolent God (perhaps the God of Death?)  
  
"Who are you supposed to be?" Duo noted that there were exactly five in the gang.  
  
"We're the Gundam pilots!" boasted the weasel guy, obviously the leader of the group. . "Give us the car or we'll shoot you and the old hag!" Footsteps sounding from behind told Duo that two of them had moved closer, and, sure enough, he felt the butt of the gun poking his back. Always an uncomfortable feeling.  
  
"Hey, I'm just an innocent mechanic," laughed Duo in a nervous laugh. "No need for all that arsenal. By all means, take the car. I just hadn't realized you guys had limited yourselves to car jacking. Fallen a bit from the war, eh? Ow, careful with that gun, fella, I'm complying!"  
  
"I say we shoot 'em anyway," growled the guy behind him.  
  
"We don't need to bog ourselves down with murder," came the quick, semi- intelligent argument of the leader. Assent flowed through the group in the form of nods and nervous coughs.  
  
The general opinion was that they had wasted enough time with worthless talk, so as two of the gunmen (one being the weasel guy) kept their weapons trained on Marla and Duo, the other three got into the car, and started it up. Sure as silk, the car revved with an ease and smoothness that was, well, as smooth as silk.  
  
Duo was truly a miracle worker with machinery. To the extent that, if he programmed a remote control to lock the car doors from a distance, than the car doors were locked from a distance, and if he didn't want them to get out, then, well, they couldn't unlock from the inside.  
  
Seconds after it was done, and confused expressions had fixated on the befuddled car hijackers, a wrench came out of nowhere and hit an outside gunman on the head, knocking him out cold. And as the four conscious ones looked up in the general direction of the wrench, where, on the rooftop, a dark-haired tomboy vixen stood with a remote in her hand; well, they were too distracted to note that the large old lady Marla had pulled out three pistols and had them simultaneously aimed at each culprit in the car. Her hands were so large that she managed this feat, and a wise, street-smart scowl was plastered to her face.  
  
"Should've checked this dented wreck." Marla chuckled, squinting angrily through her dusty spectacles. "It's an old, but faithful, police car, and that's Sergeant Hag to you. You are under arrest for being stupid jackasses and putting the area under quite a scare with your intimidations for the past month. You have the right to remain silent, and anything you say can and will be used against you." She threw Hilde the third gun as the pretty German came down the fire escape, and Hilde trained it obligingly. "Release your weapons now, slowly," continued Marla.  
  
Meanwhile, the weasel-faced leader, realizing the predicament, was making a run for it. He was pretty fast, on account of being pretty thin, each spindly leg thumping hard against the pavement as his tired, a cigarette- leached lung gasped out. He was a criminal, but a pretty shoddy one at that.  
  
But for some reason, nobody was giving chase, and for ten minutes he ducked and weaved through alleys that he was sure only he had knowledge of. He crawled up fire escapes and jumped across buildings and finally, when he could not hear or see anyone but himself and a mangy old dog scattering trash cans – he relaxed, and stopped for breath.  
  
He would have to start over, all over, recruit new people that resembled the Gundam pilots...although he'd done a pretty good job this time, and he didn't know how he'd replace those guys. There was an Arabic man, dark, tall, and tan, and someone who seemed nothing but skin and bones, a Grim Reaper, God of Death, if there ever was one, just like the rumors had always proclaimed...  
  
Then, a click of a gun in the dark, and he knew he was not as alone as originally thought. He glanced about fitfully, but night had set, and there was almost no light in this part of the city.  
  
"Stop moving," ordered a deep voice.  
  
He did so, standing rigid as a board. "W-where...are you?" He asked shakily after another moment had passed, for the resonating voice echoed, and he could not seem to pin it on a location.  
  
"You made two mistakes." continued the deep voice, and for the life of him, he still could not figure out from whom or where...and if we're going to talk about him and his life, it was something slipping away very fast, like water through cupped hands. "Number one, Gundam pilots never lower themselves to that kind of work. I understand starting out small, but come on – and number two..." The voice was in his ear now, but he didn't dare turn around for fear... "We Gundam pilots _never_ turn our backs on each other."  
  
A fist landed in the weasel's gut, and he slumped over. Duo pocketed the gun, said in his normal voice, "That was easy, and Hilde baby looked great" and then, whistling, threw the guy over his shoulder and began the trek back to an awaiting Marla and Hilde. "He took me out far though – why are they always so fast? And heavy! Geez, for a skinny guy..."

* * *

To interrupt the uncomfortable calm that had befallen an already agitated conversation, Cyrius said loudly, "You yourself spoke the words that the war was never over until the last enemy was vanquished, Zechs."  
  
But Zechs, or rather, Milliardo, was already heading to the garden's exiting path. He knew that he had been summoned by an old war comrade who had been hoping for his support in their endeavor to start yet another organization threatening peace.  
  
Cyrus had wrongly assumed that whatever philosophy they were preaching was something Zechs held emotional stock in, which was an understandable but vexing mistake. After all, he had never declared his peaceful views publicly, but this was not the first time it had happened, and he vaguely wondered if they really had no better option but a desperate grab at a famous veteran.  
  
"I'm refusing the proposition." He told Cyrus shortly. Because Cyrus had been a respectable, skilled fighter who had met an unlucky end, he turned and added over his shoulder: "At this point, you have to ask yourself who you're fighting, Cyrus. Be wary that it might be yourself."  
  
The words were surprisingly wise, mostly because it was something Noin had once told him. It had been after he had confided that this lifestyle of peace caused a sort of restless tension in him, one capable of igniting at any possible moment.  
  
If Milliardo had not begun to commit himself so wholeheartedly to the nuance of peace, he would have noticed that Cyrus let him go without much of a fight – easy defeat always being a suspicious event. If he had not let just an ounce of that old warrior pride go, he would also have been very wary of the unmistakable look in those green cat eyes: like they were laughing a bitter laugh.  
  
And he would have thought something that Relena had once said: "Bitterness is often the source of the deepest, cruelest kind of evil."  
  
Relena could often be very wise herself, and he often wondered where she got it from, because it was a gift he had evidently missed out on.  
  
Relena was so wise that she very rarely admitted to the existence of evil. It was not good for negotiations.

* * *

By the miraculous power of experience, Relena understood immediately what Quatre meant when he said, 'Duo is Duo...' but she was interested when he continued with some specific information.  
  
"He and Hilde are still running that mechanic's shop. I've tried to help him out financially, but he wouldn't hear of it. It's not his lifestyle, I don't think, although he put it in different wording, something about how business suits were cramped and he didn't like tropical potted plants..." Quatre was smiling at the memory of it. "You know how things are down there though, and I hear that every once in a while he helps out with the local police. I think he said it keeps him in shape, and he likes the action, but I don't think they've given him a formal job."  
  
Relena did know how it was down there, and when countries weren't trying to blow each other up, she channeled infinite energy into relieving the poverty. Sometimes it felt like she was going nowhere with it, but whenever she felt truly hopeless, Duo would step in and say a few encouraging words over the vid-phone. It seemed that compared to past politicians, she was a miracle worker, and held in high respect with the people she was trying to help. Relena felt instantly assured because she knew poverty was a sensitive issue to Duo, and he would always be honest about the state of things.  
  
"I talk with Hilde as often as I can. I think they're really happy together, although they do have their occasional problem. But, you know, Duo is..."  
  
"Duo." agreed Quatre. They both laughed, and sipped hot cocoa, and the complicated nature of the impending negotiations was lost in the enjoyable company. "And she's amazing at keeping his antics in line."  
  
Remembering Duo meant remembering the last time she'd seen him, and during that occasion she had been an audience to his relationship with another, more justice-oriented former pilot. She knew that Duo had interesting relationships with generally everyone he encountered, a direct result of his personality, but besides that of Duo and Heero, there wasn't a more amusing 'friendship' than the often strained relations between the braided baka and the honor-bound fighter.  
  
"How's Wufei?"

* * *

A somewhat sullen expression, mostly blank and formal, gazed out at Duo from a familiar face. Duo let out a yelp of recognition and nearly threw his weasel body package at Marla, who caught it easily in her large and careful hands. "Wow! Did I do so good that they sent over a Preventer to congratulate me?"  
  
"Eh? What are you saying, Duo?" questioned Marla, tucking her guns back into her winter coat. By this point, backup police cruisers had already come for the original four. Almost immediately he was handed over to the last police unit, who sardonically read the unconscious man his rights as he was shoved into the back of the car.  
  
Understandably, impersonating a Gundam pilot was a serious and personal offense. Even a year after the incident with Treize's daughter, and quite a lot of time since the war, the Gundam pilots were a feared – and often hated – legend.  
  
"This man is a Preventer? I thought he was a confused, lazy copper not doing any work," added Marla.  
  
"Is there a difference?" Duo joked.  
  
"Wufei! This is a nice surprise." Hilde gave him a little wave.  
  
Wufei nodded in recognition of the gesture, and it was perhaps the politest response they were going to get from him. "Excuse me, Sergeant, but I would like a word alone with Duo."  
  
Duo and Hilde exchanged a glance.  
  
"Hilde cannot stay, but you are free to tell her whatever you like afterwards." He added, aware that Duo's motor mouth was not easily detoured.  
  
Marla nodded, and five minutes later, she'd driven off in the dented wreck of a car that Duo had managed to salvage. Hilde seemed a little frustrated, but knowing that she could probably fish the important details out of Duo at a later date, joined Marla and the two agreed to go to a nearby coffee shop together and celebrate. It seemed so cliché, a cop and a friend going to a coffee shop after foiling a heist, but they vowed to stay away from the donuts.  
  
Duo took a moment to observe Wufei, and found him the same man he had always been, except perhaps in a far different uniform than Duo was accustomed to. He was wearing a trench coat, under which Duo was sure there was an accompanying business suit.  
  
Strange times, man. He could remember when they all ran around in bloodstained refugee clothes, and Wufei gave about as much care to appearance as the weasel-faced guy gave to intelligence.  
  
The clothes couldn't hide the man, however. And the man was Chinese with a black, slick ponytail and an indifferent attitude that always fringed on a scowling bad temper. Honor also seemed to follow him around, and Wufei held himself as if he expected someone to bow to him at any moment, or engage him in a duel...an honorable duel, of course.  
  
"You've turned your back on me once or twice," said Wufei.  
  
Duo frowned, seriousness etching into his hazel eyes. "I didn't even notice you, man. How long did you follow me?"  
  
Wufei paused, black eyes flashing in the dim glow of a streetlamp. "It was an accident. I was following somebody who turned out to be following you. There is no diligence for you now that you believe the danger is past, so you fail to notice two different people."  
  
"What! Who would...? Why...?"  
  
Then lightning of a thought crackled through his mind, and cold horror ran up his spine. He might end up endangering Hilde, if they heard his posturing about being a Gundam pilot, and knew that she could be used against him...  
  
Noting the horror that seeped into his face, Wufei relieved him quickly. They both underwent the proper fear concerning protecting their past identities, and even if someone was being careless, sympathy was instinctive. "They left before then, probably because I was noticed." He sighed. "I too have been letting my diligence fail me, and I fear I may taint my honor as a warrior..."  
  
It was nice that Wufei was talking about his insecurities now, instead of a lot of grunting and 'Die, dishonorable pigs!', but the timing here was totally off. "Why were you following the person that was following me and why were they were following me, and who would be followed by you who would want to follow me –"  
  
"Stop, baka." snapped Wufei irritably, back to his old self, "This person does not have any knowledge of your history. Merely, there appears to be a leak in the Preventer's – it was already contained – and they know about your assignment before you do."  
  
"My...what? Assignment? I'm not a Preventer, you guys at least need to ask me before you do stuff like this, and I mean, I only worked for the coppers 'cause Gundam impersonators are annoying as hell – is it Relena?"  
  
"You are going to be a bodyguard, but not for Peacecraft." The way he said it made it sound like there was very little choice involved for Duo.  
  
"What, Quatre? Doesn't he have a trustworthy hired guard? They're called the Magnaks or some such..."  
  
"He does have bodyguards. It is not Quatre."  
  
Duo peered into Wufei's expressionless eyes, feeling at a loss for thought (which, Wufei or Heero would have assured, was no real change from the norm). He shrugged. "Well, who is it?"

* * *

Quatre was finished summarizing Wufei's life within a matter of minutes. Basically, the man had a nice apartment right next to the Preventers headquarters – or in it, who could be sure – and lived out a very purposeful and honorable life protecting people like Relena and himself behind the scenes alongside Sally, Lady Une, and occasionally Noin (when, of course, Noin was not devotedly at Relena's side). Relena found it profoundly entertaining to hear the previously feminist Wufei now kept company predominantly around strong female figures. Personally, she'd never suspected him of true, feminist activity, for if anything, it seemed that held woman at such a high value he wanted to protect them. The end result was still suffocating, but not at all because of a despicable motive.  
  
Strong female figures immediately put the same individual into Quatre and Relena's heads. It was not somebody they needed to inquire each other about, because the woman visited them both frequently on different political and financial conquests (guess who she used for what). So when Quatre took his turn to ask Relena a question, it was not with the same passionately inquisitive nature trademark to Relena's inquiries.  
  
"Have you seen Dorothy lately?"

* * *

"It's not just her." Wufei interrupted Duo's near fainting spell. "Sally tells me there is also a talented singer we are to escort."  
  
"Who's 'we'?" asked Duo weakly. He reacted quite normally to Dorothy, in that she absolutely terrified him. They'd never known each other particularly well, but his impression of her had been (quite accurately) that she was very much like Relena: pretty, charismatic, intelligent, politically minded, stubborn and manipulative when the situation called for it. There were, of course, large differences. Dorothy was a tad more manipulative than Relena, with some snobbery and wickedness thrown in for good measure.  
  
"Only you and I." He frowned. "Sally wanted me to work with someone that she felt I could trust, someone I had decided was..."  
  
...honorable?" finished Duo. "You need a new vocabulary, man. Well...I don't have anything better to do, do I? But why me, specifically? There are four of us to choose from, you know."  
  
"I know." said Wufei. "You were not my first choice."  
  
"Thanks."  
  
"Quatre and Peacecraft are both busy with some political business. Of course, we cannot find Heero. I would have preferred respectful Trowa to a loudmouth, but Sally said we don't have much time, and since Trowa's circus is touring on Earth, you were infinitely closer by a few thousand miles."  
  
The summarization made him feel dizzy, and he ignored the loudmouth comment because they were already so aware of their opinion of each other.  
  
"Well," grinned Duo, slapping Wufei good-naturedly on the back and beginning to lead him down the street. Wufei glanced around at the surrounding squalor with disinterest. "If you really wanted to find Heero, all you needed to do was find Relena."  
  
"You know something I don't, and it's something I don't particularly care to know," sneered Wufei grumpily.  
  
But, it took very little coaxing to persuade Wufei to have dinner with Duo and Hilde that night.

* * *

A metallic peace had descended over the Winner Corporation, and Relena could not find sleep, even within the sprawling, luxurious Victorian bedroom. When the short hand had struck at three in the morning, she was still rubbing eyes sitting within their sea of gray, wrinkled bags, and yawning uncontrollably. It seemed some sort of strange spell that she could be this exhausted and yet incapable of sleep. Absent-mindedly, she brushed the same portion of her shoulder length golden hair for about the tenth time.  
  
She was thinking, but it was the sort of thinking that managed to be so deep she could not retain the life's secrets she had managed to uncover when snapped back to reality. It was like a fleeting dream about porpoises and sandwiches that she'd forgotten five minutes after waking up, except that she couldn't be waking up, because she was quite sure she'd never slept.  
  
Mostly, she worried. It was not hard. There were millions upon millions of things to worry about, and if anything, the challenge was deciding what deserved her attention first. Various paperwork and memorized speeches flitted past her in the dark, along with ethical ideas and fundraisers and whether or not this dress was flattering, and then Heero Yuy was there doing a strange Irish jig involving a coffee pot...  
  
Well, by this time, she had fallen asleep. It was unfortunate, because she was not even sitting on her bed, but at a desk in the corner.  
  
So she did not see the actual Heero Yuy, who did not look Irish but who may have needed a coffee pot, perched on the windowsill and watching her with grave attention. Like Relena, there was too much for him to worry about, and not enough time to sleep.  
  
Another unseen watcher, only immediately arrived, was the blonde Arab who smiled warmly at Heero's presence. Sleep is a rare and precious commodity to those carrying the stifling weight of inhuman responsibility.  
  
Heero barely nodded in recognition, instead turning and staring out into the cold night. Eventually, Quatre made a wheezing sound, and when he turned back, Heero found Quatre struggling with Relena's weight.  
  
Heero jumped down to help rather quickly, although not with a pause for thought. Relena had not gained a pound since he had last seen her several months ago. If anything, she was losing weight. There was no reason that Quatre, who was much stronger than he looked, should have a problem with her feather lightness. When he approached, he could see in the dull lamplight that he was a little paler than usual.  
  
"I'm just a little sick...I don't want Relena to catch my cold."  
  
Within minutes, they had pulled her up onto the bed together. Quatre sighed and collapsed near the door, looking a little unhappy, probably about his weakness. "Are you here because there might be trouble tomorrow?"  
  
Heero shook his head, and answered in his usual gruff voice an unusual response: "No...I wanted to see her."  
  
He and Relena, however, were similar creatures in that they never voided from their 'mission' even if it was undeclared in any other place other than the heart, and so Heero immediately picked up the insinuation that Relena was going into a situation that even had the slight possibility of inherent danger. "Is there a possibility of trouble tomorrow?"  
  
Quatre had begun to get up when Heero spoke. He turned back to face Heero and did pause a moment, ice blue eyes trying to meet the darker blue in good faith. "No." said Quatre levelly. "I have no reason to believe such. Of course, I don't know what Lilia thinks." Coughing, he turned away. "Do you want something to drink?"  
  
"Hn. No."  
  
Per usual, Heero seemed to have somewhere to go, and once he got there, something to do. He cast a last placid look at Relena sleeping away serenely, and Quatre, catching the almost invisible body language, allowed himself a moment of poetic reflection:  
  
_Can wooden dolls become real boys if the good faerie favors them?_  
  
An ironic, knowing smile twitched across Quatre's lips as he watched Heero move to the door, his visit evidently already finished. "Should I give Relena your regards?"  
  
Heero just looked at him blankly over his shoulder, again his expression unreadable. "What do you think?"

_

* * *

Last Words: Well, that's it, but I do want to add that when Quatre says Lilia, he's trying to tell Heero something. I don't want people swarming with, "Wait, that makes no sense, who is Lilia???" If you really must know, it's his sister, and if Heero wants to know what's up with Quatre, he'll have to go talk to her...get it?_


	2. A Singer, A Sniper And A Doctor

_Authoress' Note: Wow! Looking back, there's so many ways I would have done this story differently. I didn't realize my writing had improved, or, at the very least, changed, so very much from the last time I sat down to write a piece of fanfiction. And I'm not even exactly sure where I was initially going with the plot...oh, well, a little improvisation never hurt anyone. Anyway, concerning the Quatre question: This is so hard for me! I'm drawn to both Catherine and Dorothy as prospective matches and even Trowa sometimes. But I think I'll definitely stick with Catherine this time. Well, how about a fun little triangle? In this fic, I'm going to be a little more creative than usual with the romantic interests._

_And, I'm not a review junkie, but I strongly encourage that you encourage me. Nothing warms a writer's heart than some healthy praise. Critiques can be kept to themselves; this is not a novel I'm trying to sell to a publishing company, the only place where professional editing will be much appreciated._

_Hopefully, it's only going to get better from here._

* * *

PartTwo of A Conflicted Peace: A Singer, A Sniper And A Doctor

* * *

The roar of the crowd went up as the glittering knives danced through the masked man's fingers; gingerly, he balanced the tip on each finger, and, this precarious position held carefully, backed into the cover of the ring's dark shadows. His lovely female partner with the same caramel locks and intelligent gaze made her entrance then, bowing respectfully to the audience in rapture.

Then, closing her eyes, she began to juggle a couple of balls. It started out innocently enough. First she had three, and then there were five, and without anyone really noticing the actual change, it became eight. By the time she had ten altogether her hands were a maelstrom of activity. In the same frenzied moment, she sent the greater amount of a multi-colored ball haze towards Trowa, believe to still be waiting in the shadows. A gasp of mutual shock and horror swept through the crowd. But of course, a moment later Trowa reappeared, virtually unscathed. Each knife still balanced on his fingertip, but now each knife had a red or white ball through its blade.

Well, that sparked some dissension from a few of the watchers. They couldn't see anything – trickery would have been easy – they could have just taken knives that already had balls through them –

But this all went according to the ringmaster's plans, so the trick was redone in plain light. This time, it was obvious that the skill laid entirely with Trowa: When the balls came towards him, he could, with amazing ease and skill, twirl the blade to face the incoming ball. He never cut himself and, as the audience soon learned, the previous trick had also been done under total darkness. In fact, even now, his mask covered half his face.

Both Catherine and Trowa slipped away as the din faded into a gentle roar, and the lions were brought out. There was a nice little alcove that they always retreated to in-between performances. As her brother approached, Catherine threw him a rag for his sweat. It was pointless, which she ought to have known by now. Trowa had learned long ago that distractions were intolerable, no matter how physically instinctive they may be. He did, however, use it to remove some of the gaudy makeup.

Catherine sighed, a little tired, and mid-way through the process of grabbing a soda to cool down, flipped her fingers over the television. Grabbing the soda from the cooler and tipping her head back, she glanced only once at the actual screen. Then she was forced to give a start and take a second glance. Trowa had stopped what he was doing from the first instant.

Over a newscaster's dull drone, Quatre and Relena could be seen talking to each other and a couple other politicians. The picture looked like it had been taken several hours earlier, or perhaps even a few days ago. They were in a city colony, outside a professional looking building and milling by a limo with a couple bodyguards and a woman whose head was turned that seemed distinctively like Noin. Because of their inescapable fame, finding their old friends on the television was by no means an uncommon occasion, and Catherine slipped into a dark corner to begin changing back into her civilian clothes.

Silently, Trowa stood up and went closer to the screen. Something about the shot agitated his admittedly powerful paranoia, but he couldn't quite pin his finger on it...Quatre, however, was noticeably tense, or it was just that Trowa knew him enough to decode his mannerisms...

"Wow, doesn't Miss Relena look so pretty in that picture? I certainly think she should stick less to the color blue myself, but she always said black was too dark for her. And wow, would you look at that, Quatre seems to be doing well for himself...Oh, what did that reporter just say? He has that much money! To think of it!"

The sudden outburst almost made him drawn out his gun, but he quieted himself. Like his comrades, he was falling out of practice with the old-fashioned art of espionage and guardedness, which would unhappily account for how the chipper voice had snuck up on him like that. Catherine, who had never been particularly graceful when it came to these situations, jumped with surprise and fairly toppled over some cardboard boxes in the corner.

"Dorothy!" cried Catherine, her gait angry as she advanced upon the surprise interloper. "What are you doing here? Can't you say hello like an ordinary person?"

Trowa turned around carefully, not about to let anyone notice his anxiety. After momentary surprise, he'd quickly dissected that the chipper and singsong voice came from the always enigmatic Dorothy. But to his surprise, there was a second lady behind Dorothy – in fact, it looked like she was hiding behind Dorothy. She was of smaller height, and might have been pretty if he was ever concerned with such matters. More important seemed to be her clothes, which were even more extravagant and flowing that Dorothy aspired to. This lady, whoever she was, was rich and important and probably ill-used to visiting such slightly uncouth places like Trowa's circus.

Of course, Dorothy was perceptive as ever. "Oh, I didn't mean to scare you, Trowa!" She sent a cold look towards Catherine. "Aren't I allowed to visit old friends?"

"You didn't," answered Trowa in a monotone reminiscent of Heero. He walked to a nearby dirty mirror, and while removing the remainder of the makeup, maybe admittedly vaguely wondered why Dorothy had come today, come now. As insulted as she would act if he ever told her so, she rarely accosted her 'old friends' unless she definitely wanted something. But he needn't ask, he knew; she would tell them soon enough, whether they wanted to hear or not.

"Aren't you going to say hello to my friend? Don't be so afraid, Sheila. It's just Trowa and Catherine, and they're harmless enough. Hey, you guys, Sheila's famous. She's quite the singer! Maybe you've heard of her?"

Trowa knew that at that moment, Catherine's understandable hostility towards Dorothy would be displaced as she lavished politeness on Sheila. Catherine also loved everything she considered cute, and he didn't doubt that the sweetly shy Sheila would fall under that honored category.

Suddenly, however, that same lingering paranoia was jolted again as he thought he heard rustling outside the door. Without a word, he decided he would take a moment to step outside. He didn't balk from taking a throwing knife with him.

No sooner had he stepped outside than a couple burlesque in dark clothes stepped forward menacingly. Playing a role, he quickly threw his eyes towards the ground and attempted the look of nervousness that he knew would serve to hide his identity. The main tent was some distance away, and they were actually in a very private location.

_A blessing and a curse_, thought Trowa.

* * *

"What do you mean, Dorothy can't be found?" demanded Sally. Her blue eyes blazed and her balled fists tightened. Usually she was able to keep her temper under control, but this was not usually.

"Just that," answered Noin coolly, which probably just meant her anger had already been spent. "Dorothy can't be found. She asks us for aid, gives us some very good reasons to provide it, and then she charters the nearest shuttle to take her to Earth. Earth's a bit of a big place. We weren't able to track her movements after that."

"She was throwing off whoever was following her, huh?" Sally placed her palm against her forehead in a vain effort to stop the encroaching headache. "I know she knows some of the oldest tricks in the book. I don't think she was trying to thwart us, though. Probably whoever we needed to be brought in against. For such a tactical mind, she just doesn't think sometimes." She sighed.

They were in a Preventer's crowded office, and Sally could tell Noin was also too tired for this. Some context clues laid in the mountain of paperwork and constant refills of coffee. "To top it off," continued Noin on a sheer worry spiel, "Heero has run into a dead-end trying to track the snipers that were positioned on Relena and Quatre last week."

"Snipers? Wait...that's the first I heard of that."

"It was on television and everything. I mean, only a few of us know about it. Relena didn't even realize until Quatre pointed it out to her in private; he's always been particularly perceptive about those things. Needless to say, Heero ran onto a rooftop and stopped the man, but he committed suicide before we could interrogate. I have no idea what organization it was. I suppose it could have been an individual effort, but I highly doubt it."

"That's never how these things work." agreed Sally tiredly. "Poor Relena. That's the fourth assassination attempt, isn't it?"

Noin laughed, but it sounded harsh and bitter. Any jovial tone was absent. "Milliardo is about to lock her in a cave for the rest of her life."

* * *

From Heero's position on the rooftop, he could frame a clear mental picture of where Relena had been standing a whirlwind few days ago. The automated sunset ironically bathed the pavement in red, though Heero's thoughts wasted no time on such poetic muses.

At the time, she'd been chatting peacefully, exchanging pleasantries as Quatre continued to try and place her behind him. His actions at the time had confused her. For all her intelligence, she simply didn't possess the same awareness talent that a Gundam pilot would have in spades. When he'd explained the situation to her, she'd understood his attempted sacrifice right away and seemed caught between chiding him and crying. It wouldn't have worked, however. Nothing really could have stopped the sniper from shooting a second time, and then both Relena and a Gundam pilot would have abandoned this world.

"Zechs said you would be here." He'd been aware of Duo's presence for sometime, but didn't mind staving off conversation with the energetic pilot as long as possible. Duo had never felt right regarding their once feared nemesis by his distinguished and slightly calmer alter ego. "Well, he sort of said that you would be wasting time here, when you should be following more leads, or finding them, or whatever. I said he should spend more time comforting Relena than complaining about you, but I think he sort of stopped listening to me after he'd walked away. Hey, whatcha looking at?"

"Where Relena and Quatre were standing." Heero tore his gaze from this now to regard his braided comrade. "There haven't been any leads. He might as well have been acting alone."

This prompted a frown from Duo. "Normally, I would accept that idea...but strange things have been happening. I was enlisted to guard Dorothy, and now Noin says she's gone to Earth somewhere. We can't find her."

"Has anybody thought of contacting Trowa?" Stepping down from the ledge in a graceful leap, he squashed down his perpetual frustration, and forced his mind to think of any recent activity in the underground world. But the tremors and murmurs that he could usually read were strangely quieted. In fact, it was like all his usual sources and aliases had been figured out, and somebody was purposely protecting themselves from him. It was a special opponent that could play that sort of game.

"Trowa? Dorothy would really go to Trowa?"

"She's always felt like she has a tactical peer in Quatre, and Quatre greatly respects Trowa."

"Yeah, but...Dorothy and Catherine are kind of like...you know, two cats going at it."

Heero only looked at Duo. Anticipation of conflict would only excite Dorothy.

"I guess...I should tell Noin or Wufei or someone." said Duo after a moment, grinning sheepishly.

It seemed like the conversation had been finished. After all, they'd exchanged a few essential questions, gained and given the adequate information. But as Heero attempted to pass Duo, Duo's arm suddenly moved out to forcefully grab his arm and stop him. Duo resisted looking at Heero at first, while Heero fought down an instinct to slam a gun into Duo's back. Attempting to physically intimidate a Gundam pilot was never the wisest or cleverest move, especially when it was the most skilled pilot.

"Heero..." began Duo. "Relena has always been there for you when you were having a difficult time. Or, at the very least, she tried to be. You remember last year, right? Anyway...I consider myself friends with Relena. I love Hilde, but Relena can't be overlooked as a kind-hearted and brave person. It's hard to find both qualities, you know. And like her, I don't like it when my friends are in pain."

He sighed and dropped his grip, stepping away to admire the red sun. "She's been racked by guilt and worry these past few days."

After a pause, Duo looked at Heero meaningfully, though Heero did his best to avoid his gaze. "And so have you. Shouldn't you go to her?"

* * *

Impatient after the temporary silence, one of the men moved forward. He was sufficiently taller than Trowa, and looked condescending down at Trowa. He didn't smirk or anything utterly conceited like that, but he definitely didn't know who he was up against. That was good. Usually if his identity was known, anybody that approached him did so with a rather irrational fear. Trowa's reputation was often times stronger than Trowa himself, and in the right situation he'd learned to use that to his advantage.

"We need to see the two girls."

Trowa looked off to the side and mumbled a response only slightly coherent as, "What two girls?"

Of course, feminine laughter erupted behind them. It was inevitably Dorothy, and then he heard his sister Catherine while she gave an animated, somewhat argumentative response. A quieter sorter of piping, melodic voice also weaved into the menagerie of sound. Exchanging a glance, the two men started to the walk towards the door.

They only stopped when Trowa had a dagger pressing into each of their backs.

"Sorry. This area is off-limits to non-performers. Please return to your seats."

"Fella, you don't know what you're getting yourself into." came the surprisingly snide reply from the smaller man.

Several things happened at that moment. First, Trowa became aware of a third man with a gun behind him, carefully training on his back. Then a gunshot fired, though something was off about the sound of the direction. In the chaos that followed, Trowa knocked out both of the men with a few well-delivered blows to the gut and head. He received a blow across his cheek that he knew would bloom into a bruise, but that was immaterial: what seemed more immediately pressing was the fact that Dorothy was standing over the enemy's fallen bodies with a cocked gun and a serious look etched into her expression. She'd shot the third man, and bought Trowa the time.

"Ah," said Dorothy after a moment, when she realized Trowa was staring at her. "Here's the part when I ask a favor, my dear Trowa."

* * *

With a sigh, Quatre forced himself to stop harassing his poor video-phone. He'd been trying the last hour or so to call Trowa, but each time he'd received a busy signal. He contented himself with some more tea, and went to the window.

Such a short time ago he'd been peacefully catching up with Relena, chatting over old friends and their own lives. But this sort of dissension to peace was beginning to feel increasingly more comfortable than the actual state of peace. Peace seemed a kind of wool thrown over their eyes by enemies to disillusion them...or was that just his own disillusioned cynicism speaking? There never was a sadder sight, his father had once said, than a young cynic.

_And I'm still pretty young._

Suddenly that familiar pain in his chest accosted him, and that weak sensation spread through his limbs. He braced himself against the window, and caught himself in the reflection for a moment. It was not a wonderful sight. Unconsciously, he'd been grimacing in pain for a few minutes now.

"You've given me so much, mother." Quatre lamented. "But you must forgive me if I don't thank you for this last gift."

He'd no sooner sat down and braced himself through a coughing fit when someone knocked on his door. Quickly ridding himself of any signs of illness, he felt thankfully that he wasn't excessively pale, and announced cheerfully enough, "Come in."

"Good evening, Quatre." nodded the man that wheeled in next.

"Doctor." Quatre smiled appreciatively. "You've come just in time."


End file.
